To Do or Die
by AdamantiumStryder88
Summary: Ed wanders in from the cold...with a new colleague.
1. Chapter 1 Rendezvous

**To Do or Die**

**Chapter One - Rendezvous**

_**The dark is everywhere – under the soles of our shoes, behind the sun, hiding under the bloom of a flower…**_

Ed slipped backwards, the downdraught of the blade barely stirring the sweat-slicked bangs of golden hair stuck to his forehead. He stumbled back, his feet dragging in fatigue, scraping across the leaf litter that made up the floor of the forest. Across from him, the empty shell that was once a man positioned itself for another assault, blade low and angling back towards its shoulder, feet light and quick.

Ed's wide eyes surveyed the scene around him – dull _cracks_ and _thumps_ indicated the decimated squad of soldiers in Amestrian blue and gold struggling to hold their line in the rocky outcrops that were scattered in the clearing, many of them stained with the dull red of blood or dark, moist blue-grey of highland soil. Around the few remaining Amestrian positions were dozens of brown, leather clad mercenaries, weapons for hire that some unseen master was pitting on hapless Amestrian patrols. Their semiautomatic weapons had a much more distinctive metallic, dull _crack_, and the small clearing was enveloped in the sound of weapons discharges.

The man – and Ed refused to call it anything else – opposite Ed swept in, his blade arcing in for a feint to his legs. Ed stepped back out of the line of the blade, then in towards the man, one foot pivoting so that the actual attack – a thrust at his body – flicked past his chest a bare three centimetres from his distinctive black vest. Ed's own blade, his transmutated right arm, buried itself in the shoulder joint of the man's armour, buckling plates and driving into the hollow space within, Ed's entire body weight behind it. The man's rapid, reflexive jerk flung Ed through the air into a roundoff, coming to a skidding stop five metres from their engagement. A bare five seconds had passed, but already he felt exhausted. Again the man darted in, the two figures intertwining in a dance as skilful and graceful and it was deadly, the smaller man relying more and more on parries and gymnastics to evade the sweeping blade of the taller, more powerful figure. Finally, Ed managed to gain enough space to backflip off the steel breastplate of the armoured man as it overextended a strike, his vault carrying him several metres past the striking range of his larger opponent. His breath coming in deep panting gasps, Ed stared at the implacable suit of armour across the glistening expanse of transmuted automail arm.

Weeks of travelling and years of fighting, of living off his wits, had taken its toll on him. Waking up somewhere in the highlands to the east of Amestria, after shutting his eyes to the sight of Envy's blade slid deep into his body (had he died?), close to a year ago, as far as he could tell, disorientated, alone, and unsupplied, his only thoughts had been to return to Central and see if his final attempt to save his brother had worked, to see if Mustang – his lip twitched in an insolent smile – had finally moved his ass and decided to do something and dealt with that fucking impostor of a Fuhrer, to see if Winry, and Hawkeye, Havoc, Fuery, Falman, Breda, and Major Armstrong had survived the tumultuous events unscathed. His paths had led him ever closer to the border – and the closer he got, the greater the amount of armed men, vehicle tracks, suspicious rumblings and flashes of light. Ed was too good an alchemist and – he winced – to good a dog of the military to ignore the evidence.

An invasion was coming.

A shrill whine sliced through the air before the trees to either side of Ed exploded into bark and wood chips, showering the already-moving alchemist with fragments. Ed moved before the sound of the bullets registered in his head, his feet throwing his to his left in a crouched half roundoff. Regaining his feet behind a cluster of moss-covered rocks a couple of metres away, he looked up to see the pointed end of a blade rushing towards him at great speed. Frantically throwing himself to one side, Ed watched as the man vaulted over the rocks – bullets _pinging_ and ricocheting into and off his armour – and commenced his attack. High-low-low-high-middle-high-flank-low-flank-low-high – the shining katana seemed everywhere. Sweat flicked off golden hair, limbs seemed made of jelly, lungs burning as Ed ducked, dodged, and barely parried his way backwards, each blow visibly tiring him. The world contracted to the point of the katana. The man seemed inexhaustible, and time and time again Ed was a fraction too late, a bit too slow, a tiny bit wrong. Blows sliced clothing, _pinged_ off automail, bit into flesh, drawing blood from dozens of cuts. In the background he was vaguely aware the fighting around the Amestrian-held rock outcrops had reached a crescendo, dull _whoomph_s of grenades interspersing the _crack_ and whine of bullets. The cries of men in hand to hand combat had entered the sound of battle, so Ed figured it was only a matter of time before the men in blue-and-gold were overr-

Misstep.

The indefatigable katana-wielding suit of armour made a misstep, its weight placed too firmly on the wet, dewy ground. For a fraction of a second the man hung in space – as it recovered, a single clap cut through the sound of combat, accompanied by a flash of blue light.

*************************************************

The figure stopped, cocked his head, listening. After a second, he loosened the knives in the small bandolier hanging off his belt, patted down a brace of grenades slung across his webbing, and checked the clip on his rifle, before heading off at a fast pace for the sound of gunfire.

*************************************************

Half a kilometre in front of the departing shape, a column of men stopped at the command of their leader. Experienced, they fanned out, taking fighting positions as their leader, known as the Huntsman, cocked his head as if tasting the air.

A slight tremor in his shoulders betrayed him to those closest to him.

Intruder.

The hunt was on.

*************************************************

Ed stepped back from the warped and bent remains of a suit of armour on shaking legs - legs that buckled under him, depositing him on his butt. He was tired, so, so tired. _It could have been Al…the remains in front of me, could have been my brother…Al? Are you even alive right now? Is ANYONE alive…?_

Eyes glazed, he stared into space, mentally cordoning off thoughts of home, of the past.

_Splash._

_Splash._

_Splash. Splash._

Rain slipped through the trees to land on the teenager's head, following the curve of his skull to collect in his golden hair before mingling with the tears that flowed freely down his pain-ravaged face, tracing his battered, beaten and bleeding body, to land on limp hands in a lap sheathed in tattered and stained black leather, then streaming over the waterproof pants onto the sodden ground. Ed barely noticed that the pooling water was tinged pink.

All he could see was the faded blood seal on the inside of the neck piece, being slowly wiped off the face of the earth.

_Just like Al…_

The image of a young Al vanishing in a whirlwind of purple sprang unbidden to the forefront of his mind. Four years of a silver Al flashed past in a second, and inexorably, no matter how hard he fought, his thoughts turned to the end. _Al sacrificed himself for me. I…I was his brother! His only family…and I let him sacrifice himself?! What kind of brother am…was…I, to put him through four years of torture and then let him sacrifice himself?!_

His shaking had nothing to do with the rain.

"Hey, what the fuck?"

Followed by the distinctive _chunk-thunk­_ of a round being chambered, then a soft _click_ of a safety being removed.

Ed looked up. Fifteen metres away, on the fringe of the forest, stood two men in blood-spattered brown leather of mercenaries. More importantly, each one was armed, and each of those weapons was aimed at him.

Vaguely, he was aware he should do something. Circles, diagrams, plans of attack span through his mind with such force he became dizzy. His arms itched to fight but his muscles were disconnected from his nerves. His body twitched.

Fingers tightened on triggers.

The black circles of the barrels, barely distinguishable from fifteen metres, were clear as day to the young alchemist. All he could see was the powder-stained barrels, so close he could practically _touch_ it…_Al…Winry…Mustang…I never forgot you. Please…please don't forget me…_

Twin _schlicks_ pervaded his senses, and both men collapsed, blood spraying into a fine mist behind them. Both men fell almost soundlessly, slumping as if they were marionettes and their strings had been cut.

A strong, calloused hand yanked him upright, depositing him behind a tree. Vaguely Ed caught sight of a medium-sized man, shrouded in a faintly-camouflaged cloak with hood as he crouched, peering around the other side of the tree they sheltered behind. The man ducked his head back, let out a breath, squared his shoulders, then, quick enough that Ed barely caught a glimpse of his cloak whispering around the trunk of the tree, he was gone. Several more _schlicks_ split the air, followed by dull _thumps_ of bodies hitting the ground.

A twig cracked.

Ed's head jerked to the side. There.

A bare two metres away, a third brown-clad man was adjusting his aim. Time stood still as Ed saw the slender man's eyes –_ dark brown eyes, just like Mustang -_ flicker towards the alchemist, drawn by Ed's sudden movement. Surprise flooded his face, and his rifle wavered in Ed's direction. Then it swung back towards the fight between Ed's saviour and the mercenaries.

Ed acted on instinct, throwing himself at the mercenary.

Startled – obviously assuming that the battered, huddled blonde youth was no threat – the man swung his rifle at Ed again, only to have the youth bat the rifle down with an arm made of shining steel extending into a blade that slid deep inside his chest. A faint gurgle escaped the dying man, and out of the corner of his eye Ed saw a green-brown shape suddenly move, twisting around to search for the sound.

For a second their eyes met.

_Crack._

Ed drew breath between clenched teeth.

And everything went black.

*************************************************

Stryder swore inside. The guy was just sitting there, waiting to be blasted to a beckoning oblivion. _What the fuck…_Twitch. _Oh, shit-!_

His silenced semiautomatic rifle spat fire a split second before the second man's finger would have depressed enough to fire. His subsonic rounds shredded both men, dropping them almost soundlessly. _Shit. Nothing against it, anymore_. He covered the twenty metres distance between his position and that of the kneeling teenager in barely a second, his hand extending to grasp the teen's shoulder and roughly throw him behind a tree, his back slamming into the rough wooden trunk a split second later. Peeking around the curve of the grey-speckled brown trunk, Stryder glimpsed two more men moving stealthily through the woods. Stepping over the sprawled corpses of their two compatriots, each man moved with their knees bent, rifles in shoulders and eyes down the sights, swinging their weapons in slow arcs. Despite being separated by a few metres, each man kept to his own arc of responsibility, sweeping only 180o and leaving their partner to cover their back. _Not good._

He pulled his head back behind cover, mind racing. Finding no other option, he exhaled, squared his shoulders and slipped out from behind the tree, rifle coming into his shoulder even as he straightened up into a crouch. His rifle swung into line with the first man, already moving to aim at Stryder. _One, two, three_, he triple-tapped the man, sending him slipping to the ground, rifle flying from limp hands. The second man was only just turning to engage the dark figure, just catching sight of him before several rounds blew off the back of his head.

For a second Stryder paused, motionless, his body frozen in a crouch, rifle still aimed at the spot the mercenary's head had just taken up, his ears straining for sounds of pursuit or alarm. A faint gurgle drew his attention, and he spun around, body low to the ground.

A bare five metres away, the blonde stood chest to chest with a man a head taller. Between them, the mercenary's rifle was jammed into the youth's stomach, and – was that a _sword_? – was jammed _through_ the chest of the man, protruding out his back smeared with blood.

Slowly, the blonde turned his head away from the dying man to meet the lieutenant's eyes. Stryder shuddered – the blonde might be physically a teenager, but his eyes showed his real age. In them, Stryder saw hardness, an indifference that said _I've done this before._ And that put the highly-experienced fighter on edge.

_Crack_.

*************************************************

_Crack._

The Huntsman stopped in mid sentence as the shot rang out. His eyes flicked towards the man he was conversing with, who suddenly looked decidedly uncomfortable. He gestured, and his men, previously mingling with the remnants of the mercenary company, began to move in towards him.

*************************************************

The teen's eyes widened as a spray of red mist blew out the small of his back. Slowly, jerkily, he drew breath, before those golden eyes – _I've never seen such a colour_ – slid shut, and he tipped backwards, his modified right arm – _it _was_ a blade _– sliding out of the mercenary's ribcage with a wet sucking sound. Both bodies hit the ground almost simultaneously, the mercenary crumpling at the knees and pitching forward face-first, the blonde's torso being followed by his arms.

Stryder moved faster then he ever had, reaching the teenager in time to catch his automail arm, avoiding the razor sharp edge. Drops of blood splattered his camouflaged trousers, as he dove into one of many thigh pockets for a first aid kit. Quickly, for he knew that last shot had been heard by many ears, he poured sulphur onto the open wound, checked the bullet had gone right through, then packed the wound with padding, wrapping a bandage around the limp waist. In three minutes he slung the youth over his shoulder, careful to avoid the still-seeping wound, and ran.

*************************************************

Kneeling, the Huntsman ran his hands over the imprint of a boot in the mossy ground. Beside him, behind him, bodies cooled in the chilly mountain air. Scattered all around him, and in a small group of five behind him, his men waited. Many times before they had done this – hunted down fleeing enemies. Many of the sixty two men enjoyed it, and all had killed before. Most were veterans of skirmishes with the military from previous engagements, and so recognised the spent cartridges.

The Huntsman straightened as another man approached, bloodied. He waited, then frowned.

He had sent out two men.

"Sir."

The Huntsman observed the scout through hooded eyes.

"Where's Jacobs?"

The scout flushed.

"We engaged a small group of Amestrian survivors that our," his lips turned down at the corners, "friends…failed to kill. Jacobs got hit – he's dead, sir."

The Huntsman shrugged.

"What did you find?" He smiled, and the scout shivered. It was a predatory smile, full of teeth and the promise that he knew how to use them. "Apart from another hunt."

The scout pointed. Everyone noticed the shake in his hand, but no one commented.

"Tracks. That way. One man." The Huntsman's eyes widened for a second, but the scout continued. "He's carrying something – some_one_, I think. And it's bleeding."

The Huntsman gestured, and the blood-soaked area was filled with shouts and the sound of moving men. In all the noise no one heard the Huntsman's snort of amusement and anticipation.

"Stryder. This time you've gone too far."

Then he smiled and started to move out.

*************************************************

Several kilometres ahead, the dark figure ran, carrying the bleeding form of a young, blonde man slung over one shoulder. Behind him, gunfire erupted into the night, faint cries echoing through the valleys and ridgelines of the highlands as the small party of Amestrian survivors were decimated.


	2. Chapter 2 Escape

**Chapter Two - Escape**

_The weakness of the dark is this; the smallest candle can hold back the shadows_

The Huntsman sat warming his hands around a fire in the cold mountain air. The intensity of the heat and the flickering, leaping flames mirrored what he was feeling inside. Those around him, his five lieutenants, were quiet, sensing that silence was an unspoken order.

Abruptly the Huntsman spoke.

"He's here somewhere."

The men shifted, uneasy. _For some reason, _thought one, a man named Pierce, _one man who can evade sixty men, yet still be close to us, really bothers me._ But he didn't say anything. The Huntsman continued.

"He's close. He has to be. He couldn't move fast with the State Alchemist, not with him bleeding." Pierce shifted again, glancing at the men around him. Charet was calm and collected, picking his nails. Pierce wrinkled his nose in distaste_._ Smokey and Jiang were conversing quietly – Pierce saw a flash of cards and realised they were gambling_._ Finally, across the fire, White was sharpening a knife. All the men attempted indifference, but each was curious. _You can hide your body language, but the eyes give you away…_Pierce smiled as he remembered the woman who taught him that. _Good times._

Suddenly the Huntsman was standing. Pierce blinked, looked through the spiralling embers at White. White shook his head. _He hadn't seen the Huntsman move either._

"Smokey. We need a distraction."

Smokey looked at him in askance. He smiled.

"A burst of gunfire. Shouts. Something big enough that everyone rushes towards it, leaving the camp unguarded."

This time, it wasn't just Smokey who looked confused.

If anything, it seemed to enhance the Huntsman's smile.

"We won't tell the men, because it needs to be authentic." He shrugged. "Also, because if we do, our quarry would be onto us. No," here his voice dropped to a whisper, "what we are gonna do is give him an opening. We make a distraction, and he has no choice but to take it. His package is bleeding, and every hour brings him closer to death. So, he takes the chance. He kills the sentry near him. Hopefully he makes a noise, and then one of you," his voice deepened, and every man knew it was an order, "who will be hiding just outside the perimeter, having "taken a piss", jumps him. If, however, he's good," at this the Huntsman's voice dipped in approval, "he won't make a noise. Then the men we dispatch, after giving him enough time to kill our man and get away, check every sentry, we get a fix on his location, and his days are numbered."

The Huntsman looked at each man. Each had a different reaction – Charet looked enthused, White and Smokey looked indifferent, Jiang more interested in the cards in his hand, and Pierce. Pierce was watching the others.

The Huntsman smiled.

Pierce looked up, noticing the scrutiny. The Huntsman couldn't be sure, but for a second, he thought he saw fear – or was it dislike…?

*************************************************

Jiang waited.

The hand on his watch – synchronised back at the campfire, showed him that Smokey was late. The expected burst of gunfire that was intended to either flush out their quarry and end their side trip within the next couple of hours, or just get him back in front of the fireplace and planning something a little less drastic, hadn't happened. And it was already half an hour late.

He shivered, burrowing deeper into the mass of leaf litter he was lying on. Stomach growling, he tightened his grip on his rifle whilst flexing his toes inside his boots to keep blood flow to his extremities up. All around him, the sounds of nightlife was conspicuously absent, and he had to settle for listening to the dull buzz of silence. _Come ON, Smokey…_

His clock face read two and a half hours late when something started to happen. A commotion to his right drew his attention, and he crept slowly towards the scene, angling himself to cut off any escape route. The silence amongst the dark trees was almost absolute, disturbed only by the faint sounds from the camp and sentries.

When he reached what he guessed was a hundred metres from the disruption, he realised he'd heard no sounds of fighting. Confused, he started to move faster, only to have a dark shape fly out of the trees and slam into him, bearing him to the ground, knife sliding between his ribs to puncture his heart.

Pain, pain like he'd never experienced before ripped through his chest, tearing the sight out of his eyes a split second after he recognised his attacker.

*************************************************

The Huntsman stared down at the cold body of Smokey, blood still encrusting the line across his throat. Idly he kicked the body with his toe, noticing the expression on the dead man's face. _Surprise. He had no idea what hit him._ His lip curled.

Just outside his field of view, Pierce arrived at the circle of onlookers, joining White. _Shit. This will really piss of the Huntsman._ A few seconds later, a cry came out from the cold a score of metres away. Within a minute, Pierce was looking at the body of another lieutenant, this one warm, blood still pumping feebly from a jagged gash across, _through_, his heart. He stared at it for a second, his mind clouded with anger. _Where to now?_

"Any leads on the man?"

Huntsman looked up to see Pierce addressing a man with markings of a sergeant.

"Ah, no sir."

Pierce practically snarled, his hand twitching towards the man's throat.

"Find some!"

Huntsman smiled, and then returned to the campfire to await the reports of the scouts.

*************************************************

Kilometres away, a young Amestrian lieutenant sat sterilising a needle in a pot of water boiling over a fire. Cautiously, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth, he threaded it, before applying it to the horribly-white skin of a young, bloodstained blonde. Quickly, because he didn't want the teenager to awaken before he finished, he sewed up the jagged exit wound, wiping away blood and cutting out dead or infected tissue as he did so. He paused every thirty seconds to switch knives, leaving them in the boiling water to sterilise and heat up.

The dark thread contrasted sharply with the waxen, sickly looking paleness of the youth's skin. Stryder's hands moved with surety and skill as he threaded the heated needle through pale skin, his mind detached from motions long since trained into his muscles.

Inside, he was far from steady.

_Who IS this kid?_

From his height, Stryder would place him around the age of fifteen. But the muscular build pointed towards a stockiness that could mean the height was just genetics. But that would still put him only at seventeen – and no seventeen year old would have those scars…_surely…_he could place knife wounds, bullet holes, and most commonly, the scars of punctures and slashes. _Was he abused? But what assailant would use a firearm on a kid? Or…is he a mercenary? But then why would they try to kill him?_

And then there was the automail. Stryder knew several men – grown men – who had automail. Each complained of aches and pains associated with the use of automail, and he knew that the attachment of automail was incredibly painful. What doctor would recommend a kid of seventeen have automail attached? _And mercenaries of the kind I killed rarely spend enough on one person to have _one_ pieces of automail attached._

_Not mercenary, then._

A final tug on the thread, then a series of quick knots to ensure it didn't pull through, and he was done. Turning to place the needle and last knife into the pot of boiling water, he realised the fire had gone out. Cursing under his breath, he searched for his matches. He was on his knees looking through his webbing for them when a clap and flash of blue light flared out through the clearing. A second later, from a crouched ready stance a few metres further away then he had been before, knife held point first, ready for throwing, and pistol sighted, he gazed across a merrily burning fire, over a bubbling pot of water, into the golden eyes of the blonde youth, carelessly sharpening a blade extending out of his automail right arm.

For a second they stared at each other, Stryder observing the pain barely held behind a cool veneer, the blonde studying the lieutenant with a cool gaze, his eyes flicking down to the Amestrian emblem and chevrons on his chest. Then, carefully, the blonde pressed his fingers to his metal arm, and the blade shrank back into the metal. Stryder paused for a second, noting the sudden hardness in the kid's eyes. _He hates being defenceless…_the thought shocked Stryder. Almost as much as the blonde's next statement.

"Lieutenant, I could always order you to put down those weapons."

The laughing lilt to the words was backed up by a grin spreading over the blondes face. Stryder stared, struggling to compose himself. Cautious now, he ventured a quiet "Sir?"

Ed laughed.

"I gotta tell you, ell tee, its damn good to see a man with friendly markings." He paused, then rifled through the lieutenants webbing before extracting a small package, ripping it with his teeth and throwing it in the pot of boiling water. Idly he stirred it into the water with an automail finger, sitting forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He continued, looking up at Stryder now and then.

"Bet you got no idea who I am, eh? I know I'd be pretty confused if I were you. Out on a patrol, you stumble across a bunch of leather-clad men who start firing on you in earnest, a empty suit of armour that's till moving, and a small blonde teenager who then destroys the suit of armour with just his hands." A grin accompanied the weary sounding voice, and Stryder noted the kid was hiding behind his golden bangs, his golden eyes hooded.

He thought for a second, seating himself on a moss covered rock and automatically mimicking the teenager's pose.

_A teenaged alchemist who knows the structure of the military_…_I know of only one in the last ten years…in fact, only one ever. And he's been missing for almost two years. _Quickly he sifted through his memories. An image of a small blonde kid, automail arm and leg, wearing a red coat emblazoned with an unfamiliar black design and a silver pocket watch, accompanied by a large suit of armour with no one inside brought up a name. He spoke it aloud, with a sense of awe and disbelief.

"You're the Fullmetal Alchemist, Edward Elrich."

Ed looked up, sharply.

"Huh. Wouldn't have thought you old enough to know anything about me. How old are you?"

The lieutenant smiled, and in the smile, Ed saw a man older beyond his years. Someone like him.

"Hey, kid – you know when you went into Liore?"

Ed started at that, his finger almost knocking over the pot of soup. He had to dive to save it. Stryder chuckled, his pose one of studied nonchalance.

"Yeah, I know all about that. Even more than Mustang." Again he laughed at the look on Ed's face. "What I never get is why that other alchemist was there."

"Who the fuck are you?" Ed was on his feet, hands twitching closer. _Tables have turned now, huh, kid?_

The lieutenant held up his empty hands, an easy smile on his lips despite his irritation at himself. _Why did I let his arrogance get under my skin? This isn't a pissing contest_.

"I was one of Hughes men, but then he got killed," he noted the flash of pain that swept across Ed's features, cursing himself for his insensitivity, "but now I work for Captain Havoc." This time Ed almost laughed out loud. He thumped himself on his chest. "Just call me Stryder – everyone else does. Work straight outta Central, but you'll never catch me at the office."

A second later a thin blade was shaving hair from his throat, and Ed was looking straight into his eyes from above him. Stryder's hand was on his pistol, the barrel pointing straight into the alchemist's chest. The teen's voice was cold and brittle.

"You better not be lying…cos I've had about enough of that in the last five years."

Stryder kept eye contact for a minute, then sighed. _This kid's on the edge. If he were a soldier I'd have him carted off for a rest…_

"Don't try that again," he said coolly. "You might tear the stitching."

Ed grimaced. Stryder misinterpreted.

"It was the best I could do. You really need a hospital. The wound is clean, the round passed right through. But I didn't have the time needed to stop and clean it straight away…in fact," he grimaced, "its been three days since you got shot. Do you remember anything?"

Ed sat heavily, eyes suddenly tired. He spoke dully.

"I remember seeing you kill those two men who were threatening me. I remember you throwing me against a tree before vanishing. Then there was a scuffle…he was going to shoot you in the back, and I…I couldn't let that happen. I killed him." The pain in that statement cut Stryder to the core. I felt the blade grate his ribs, then I saw you move, and a burning fire ripped through me. Then nothing, till you stitched me up."

Stryder winced. "You were awake through that?" _Havoc's gonna kill me._

Ed grinned, knowing what was going through the young mans head. "For a bit, yeah." Then he sobered. "You said I was out for three day? What happened?"

The lieutenant shifted on his rock, dipping his hand into his webbing a producing a cup from nowhere. The flickering firelight danced across his face as he leant forward to dip the cup into the boiling soup, and Ed realised with a start he was only young, twenty something.

"When you got shot, I had to move fast. I quickly bandaged you up," Ed started at that, glancing towards the fire, where several long, white bandages were smouldering quietly. From where he sat he could see the dark stains running along their lengths, "and threw you over my shoulder. We made it bout a kilometre before any serious pursuit started. The whole reason I was there was to track a man known as the "huntsman" and his company. Havoc thought they were one of the most dangerous – most renown alchemist killers. It's said he can track an alchemist anywhere. Anyway, Havoc wanted him dead, so he could start sending alchemists out on patrols and maybe get them back alive, which isn't happening much anymore." Ed noted the sadness in the man's face.

He pulled himself together, continuing in a more animated voice, staring deep into the fire, reciting his – their – story almost like a report.

"The first visible signs I had of pursuit was when I stopped for a break." His lips curved up into a smile, and Ed saw a vitality and energy about the man that made him happy to be around him. "You're bloody heavy for a teenager of seventeen." His smile receded and he was back to his report. "Two men, 'cos the huntsman likes to operate in pairs, came out of the forest behind me and spotted me. I killed them, though one managed to get some shots of his own off. I had to get going again, so I slung you over my shoulder again. Sorry."

Ed appraised the man as his story continued. Stryder, a lieutenant in the Amestrian Military, was a lean young man of around twenty, twenty one. His cloak and combat fatigues were all well worn and customised – his shirt had a variety of extra pockets sewn on with varying degrees of skill, his epaulette was buttoned onto his chest on the right side of his breast pocket instead of being on his shoulders, and dog tags had rubber silencers around them. His shirt hung open to his sternum, revealing a khaki undershirt that stretched and rippled across his chest muscles as he moved. He wore gloves, with the right hand's trigger finger cut off, and grip patterning the palm and tip of each finger. His webbing was a dark khaki as well, and sported several non-regulation items, like climbing aids, several throwing knives, and climbing rope attached to what looked like a small grapnel gun. His boots were non-regulation, but top of the line waterproof hiking boots from the best civilian designer. His windup watch was covered by a cloth wristband, and his pistol was held in a low-slung duellers holster strapped to his upper thigh. All of his equipment was top-of-the-range, well used and worn, but despite that, it was all clean and well-cared for. Bloodstains marred his right shoulder and upper chest, and flecks of blood coated the edges of dozens of small rips and tears in his clothing. His belt was ragged from pushing through too much thick undergrowth, his small backpack sweat-stained and losing its original starched look.

The man was far tougher than his slender appearance. Ed noted the small bandolier of throwing knives, the semiautomatic rifle and pistol with their silencer attachments, and several palm-sized objects that could have been grenades.

Stryder continued.

"The Huntsman is good. I know these woods better than anyone in the military outside other light fighters, but he kept with me. I would have got you to a hospital faster, sir, but I kept getting corralled by his patrols."

Ed frowned. "You said that at one point, we were actually hiding inside their perimeter. How did that happen?"

Stryder flushed a little.

"I got tired, sir. You weren't exactly light, and I had to keep stopping to check your wounds. Last night, I just finished fixing your bandages when I heard them. They were quiet and stealthy, within a hundred metres of us, but their lack of speed allowed me to throw this cloak over us and burrow into the leaf matter in a dry streambed, just off their path." He snorted. "I had no idea that they'd make their fucking camp right on top of us."

Ed leant forward, intrigued.

"At one point during the night, I heard one of their men talk to a sentry, saying he was going out to take a piss. As he passed, I slit his throat. After that, it was easy to slip away from the sentry, now that I knew where he was, and get away."

Ed nodded, sipping at his soup. He knew that the lieutenant was hiding the true depth of their ordeals. But he let the lieutenant shrug off his attention, deciding to take it up with him once they returned to Central.

"So, sir-" Ed interrupted the lieutenant before he said three words.

"Look, lieutenant, call me Ed. Everyone does."

Stryder smiled. _He really is like all the stories._

"Havoc calls you "Boss"."

Ed smiled.

"Well, that's Havoc for you." Ed yawned, stretched, then settled back into a slouching posture. "Truth be told, I could never figure out why Hawkeye didn't shoot him. Anyone else, and she wouldn't tolerate sloppiness. But Havoc? I mean, with his ever present cigarette. She never let the Colonel smoke, but Havoc gets away with it."

"You knew the Major as well? Guess I'm not surprised. They looked for you, you know." Ed looked away, his hands fidgeting around the mug of soup he held. Stryder smiled. _There was real affection between those guys…_ "Mustang was real dedicated to his search, after he recovered."

"Recovered?! From what?"

The Amestrian's smile was bitter. "His fight with the Fuhrer."

Ed was insistent.

"What happened?!"

"No one knows, exactly. Classified, top secret, all the red tape – and I don't have the right scissors. I suspect you know more than me." Ed had the grace to look guilty. "All that's officially revealed is the Brigadier General – now a full three-star General, mind you, returned from the Fuhrer's estate with one Lieutenant, now Major, Hawkeye, and the Fuhrer's son, leaving the estate burning, and proceeded straight to the hospital, where the General received treatment for a combination of gunshot and sword wounds, plus minor second-degree burns. The Fuhrer's body was never found." Ed smiled at that. "Also, the…body…of one Colonel Archer was located on scene, with rounds from Lieutenant Hawkeye's service sidearm lodged inside him. Tsk, tsk. Wonder how _that_ happened."

Ed's response was dry and laconic, though threaded with fatigue.

"Well. You guys have been busy since I've been away."

Stryder finished off the last of his soup and chucked it into the fire, almost burnt to embers now. "Where did you go?"

The distant in the alchemists reply caught the soldier by surprise, as if he was speaking it by rote.

"Away. I went away."

Stryder nodded, accepting the younger man's wish for privacy. "You need your rest. I don't want to have to carry you back to Central!"

Ed snorted, his aggressive manner curtailed by an incredibly strong urge to sleep. The lieutenant nodded to himself, satisfied that Ed was feeling the effects of the small sedative he slipped into his soup. "I'll take first watch. You sleep. Got it?"

Ed mumbled something that sounded like a negative, followed by a stream of unintelligible words that related a story bout how the lieutenant was tired and that _he_ should go to sleep and let Ed take the watch, before he pitched face-first into the arms of the soldier.


End file.
